


Stupid Cupid

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [51]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 07:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17845037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Stella has a change of heart about Valentine's Day. Sort of.





	Stupid Cupid

Perhaps it was more prevalent in the States, or just New York, or perhaps it was simply that she had never bothered to pay much attention to the holiday, but Valentine’s Day suddenly seemed to be extremely prevalent to Stella this year.  Of course, she was always aware of the date, of the increase in chocolates and flowers at shopfronts, but it all seemed so subtle before. Now though, it was inescapable. 

 

In her mid-afternoon lecture, Stella could feel the anticipation and impatience in the room as though it was a tangible object. Though normally a focused and attentive group, most of her students appeared distracted. Once upon a time, this would have irritated her to no end, but she found herself sympathetic in their desire to go and be and do.

 

Surprising everyone, including herself, she ended her lecture ten minutes early and dismissed the class with a gentle reminder to read the assigned case studies.  Probably distrustful that she wouldn’t change her mind, most of the students hurried to pack up their bags and run out of the lecture hall. Someone calls out a ‘happy Valentines Day, Professor,’ at the door.  She doesn’t turn from erasing the whiteboard to acknowledge it, but her lips turn up at the corners with the hint of a smile.

 

It isn’t the end of her day, however. She has office hours until six today, and though no one has made an appointment, she is bound by her schedule. The general mood of her students must be infectious because she finds herself unable to concentrate on grading the papers that await her. She’s able to answer a few emails, but her mind is elsewhere. She wants to be home with her husband.

 

Promising herself it’s just this once, she shuts down her computer and leaves the papers on her desk instead of bringing them with her. It’s a mild night, as though even Mother Nature is encouraging people to enjoy themselves. Stella is hatless, gloveless, and scarfless for the first time this winter. 

 

Everywhere she turns, across campus, on the streets, and in the subway, the balloons and heart-shaped boxes and pink gift bags are unavoidable.  There’s a father and daughter sitting in front of her on the train. The impish blonde little girl has a dimpled grin and is missing her top two front teeth.  She has a small teddy bear under her arm, her hand in her father’s, and she kicks her pink patent leather shoes together excitedly. It makes Stella smile wistfully.

 

In the four blocks from the subway to the left, the streets are absolutely saturated with vendors that have popped up with buckets of flowers and tables of trinkets.  She passes most of them by and ignores the calls of ‘flowers, Miss, chocolates, Miss,’ but stops when a small, weathered woman beckons her close and gestures to a simple but elegant bouquet of red roses.  

 

Hank brought Stella flowers once, not for Valentine’s Day, but just out of the blue.  She regrets that she was rather dismissive of them and not because she doesn’t appreciate a nice floral arrangement as a decorative aesthetic, but at the time, she found the gesture to be unnecessary and cliche.  She knows now that Hank has suppressed his natural proclivity for romantic gestures for her benefit. He finds ways though, to subtly lavish gifts on her and make it seem like happenstance. He blames it on impulse and she’s let him think he’s fooling her.  She is not an impulsive woman, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t feel absolutely inspired by the spirit of this silly little holiday. She searches her bag for her wallet and buys the roses.

 

Hank is pacing by the windows when she arrives home.  He’s got a whiskey glass in one hand, a handful of pages in the other, and a red pen between his teeth.  He’s mumbling to himself and so engrossed that he doesn’t initially notice that Stella has come in. It gives her a few minutes to appreciate the view.  He’s barefoot and shirtless, jeans riding low on his hips. Even in winter, he manages to maintain the hint of a healthy tan. His cheeks are dark with 5 o’clock shadow and as he turns to pace towards her instead of away, her eyes drift to the dark line of hair that trails down from his navel and disappears under his jeans.  The snap is invitingly open.

 

“Well, shit,” Hank says, startling a little when he sees Stella.  He yanks the pen out of his mouth. “I must’ve lost track of time.  I didn’t order dinner yet, I must’ve-”

 

“I’m early,” she interrupts, moving towards him with the bouquet cradled in her arms.

 

“You’re early?”  He flips his wrist and checks his watch.  “You’re early!”

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

 

Hank lifts his eyebrows and then turns to set his glass down on the windowsill.  He takes the flowers Stella offers him and laughs. “Roses?” he says. “For me?”

 

“I know we don’t normally celebrate, but I…”

 

“C’mere, Sherlock.”  Hank drops his papers and pen to the floor and opens his arm up to her.  She steps into his embrace and presses herself flush to his chest, cheek to his sternum.  Her arms come around his waist and she locks her hands at the wrists. The plastic wrapper around the bouquet crinkles against her back as he wraps her up tight.

 

She breathes him in and thinks that maybe for the first time, she understands how people can become absolutely giddy at the thought of being allowed to unabashedly love someone and be loved in return.  Not that Valentine’s Day has changed how she feels on any other day, but it’s like the world has suddenly given her permission to be a little be silly about it.

 

“Do you want to go out?” Hank asks.  “I doubt we can get last minute reservations somewhere fancy, but we could-”

 

“I want to stay right here,” she says.  

 

“Whatever my Valentine wants, she shall have.”

 

She can’t help it, she giggles at the notion of being anyone’s Valentine.  She turns her face and presses her lips to his chest and lingers there. She can feel his heartbeat against her mouth.  “I love you,” she whispers, and then laughs again, so wholeheartedly that tears form in the corners of her eyes.

 

Hank pulls back from her a little and brushes his finger under her chin to tilt her head up.  “Are you high?” he asks.

 

“Not at all.  It’s...Valentine’s Day.”

 

“I think something might be in these roses.”  

 

He loosens his hold on her to bring his arm up and press his nose into the bouquet.  She pulls them from his hand and tosses them to the side so that they land on the sectional sofa with a crinkle and a bounce.  A little petulantly and a little impatiently, she pulls on his elbow to bring his arm back around her. He chuckles and wraps her up again.

 

“Sherlock, when you said you wanted to stay here, did you mean here here, or like, we have a really nice bed and we should use it, here?”

 

“We do have a nice bed.”

 

“I mean, we also have a nice couch and a nice bathroom counter and a nice kitchen island and a nice shower-”

 

“And a nice rooftop.”

 

“Rooftop?  Kinky.”

 

She shrugs.  “It’s a nice night.”

 

“I think you’re kidding, but I’m going to file that one away in my spank bank for future use.”

 

“You’re telling me you’ve never thought about it?”

 

“You’re telling me you have?”

 

She pulls out of his arms, even though she doesn’t want to, but she knows it’ll only take a little teasing to get her right back to where she wants to be.  She backs away, loosening her blouse from her skirt and toying with the buttons. “Why don’t you go ahead and put in that order now while I slip into something more comfortable?”

 

Hank trails after her to the bedroom like a puppy at her heels.  “I want to hear more about this rooftop fantasy. Consider it a Valentine’s present.”

 

“I got you roses.”

 

“Well, it could be next year’s gift in advance.”

 

“I should point out that I never said it was a fantasy.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“Unless a fantasy merely consists of you, me, and our rooftop.”

 

“I love it.”

 

“You’re pathetic.”

 

Hank grins and pulls her sideways onto the bed.

 

“This is a really stupid holiday,” she says, tracing his mouth with the tip of her finger.

 

“I know, it’s great, isn’t it?”

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Watson.”

 

“You too, Sherlock.”

 

The End


End file.
